Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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32

THE VESSEL THAT Dr. Throckmorton had commandeered for his survey was a stubby converted stern-trawler used by the Canadian Fisheries Service. The one-hundred-foot-long Cormorant was docked near where Mike Neal's boat had been tied up on the Trouts' first visit to the harbor.

"To quote the great Yogi Berra, This is like deja vu, all over again,' " Trout said, as he and Gamay walked up the gangplank onto the deck of the survey vessel.

She gazed out at the sleepy harbor. "Strange being back here. This place is so peaceful."

"So is a graveyard," Paul said.

Throckmorton bustled over and greeted them with his usual ef– fusiveness. "The Doctors Trout! What a pleasure it is to have you aboard. I'm so glad you called. I had no idea after our discussion in Montreal that we'd be seeing each other so soon."

"Neither did we," Gamay said. "Your findings created quite a stir with the people at NUMA. Thanks for having us aboard on such short notice."

"Not at all, not at all." He lowered his voice. "I recruited a couple of my students to help out. A young man and woman. Brilliant kids. But I'm pleased to have adult scientific colleagues aboard, if you

know what I mean. I see you're still wearing your cast. How's the arm.

"It's fine," Paul said. He glanced around. "I don't see Dr. Barker on board."

"He couldn't make it," Throckmorton said. "Personal commit– ment of some sort. He may try to join us later. I hope he shows up. I could use his genetic expertise."

"Then the research hasn't been going well?" Gamay said.

"On the contrary, it's been going fine, but I'm more of a mechanic in this field, if I may use an analogy. I can bolt the frame and chassis together, but it's Frederick who designs the sports car."

"Even the most expensive sports car wouldn't run forever without the mechanic to make the engine go," Gamay said with a smile.

"You're very kind. But this is a complex matter, and I've run into a few aspects that have me puzzled." He frowned. "I've always found fishermen to be superb observers of what's going on at sea. The local fishing fleet has moved on to more productive grounds, as you know. But I talked to a few old-timers, shore captains who watched the fish stocks vanish and be replaced by these so-called devilfish. Now the devilfish have dribbled down to nothing. They're dying, and I don't know why."

"Too bad you haven't been able to catch any."

"Oh, I never said that. Come, I'll show you."

Throckmorton led the way through the "dry lab," where the com– puters and other electrical equipment were kept high and dry, and into the "wet lab," basically a small space with sinks, running water, tanks and table space used for the damp pursuits such as carving up speci– rnens for investigation. He donned a pair of gloves and reached into an oversized cooler. With a hand from the Trouts, he pulled out the frozen carcass of a salmon about four feet long and placed it on a table. "That's similar to the fish we caught," Paul said, bending low to inspect the pale-white scales.

"We would have liked to keep this specimen alive, but it was im– possible. He tore the net apart and would have devoured the rest of the ship if he lived long enough."

"Now that you've seen one of these things up close, what are your conclusions?" Gamay said.

Throckmorton took a deep breath and puffed out his plump cheeks. "It's as I feared. Judging from his unusual physical size, I'd say he's definitely a genetically modified salmon. A lab-produced mutant, in other words. It's the same species as the one I showed you in my lab."

"But your fish was smaller and more normal-looking."

Throckmorton nodded. "They were both programmed with growth genes, I'd venture, but where my experiment was kept under control, there seems to have been no effort to restrain size with this fellow. It's almost as if someone wanted to see what would happen. But size and ferociousness led to its downfall. Once these creatures destroyed and replaced the natural stocks, they turned on each other." "They were too hungry to breed, in other words?"

"That's possible. Or this design may simply have had a problem adapting to the wild, in the same way a big tree would be uprooted in a storm while a straggly little scrub pine survives. Nature tends to cull out mutants that don't fit into the scheme of things."

"There's another possibility," Gamay said. "I think Dr. Barker said something about producing neutered biofish so they couldn't breed."

"Yes, that's entirely possible, but it would involve some sophisti– cated bioengineering."

"What's next for your survey?" Paul said.

"We'll see what we can catch over the next few days, then I'll bring this specimen and anything else I catch back to Montreal, where we can map the genes. I may be able to match it up with some of the stuff

I have in the computers. Maybe we can figure out who designed it." "Is that possible?"

"Oh, sure. A genetic program is almost as good as a signature. I sent Dr. Barker a message telling him what I found. Frederick is a whiz at this sort of thing."

"You speak very highly of him," Paul said.

"He's brilliant, as I said before. I only wish that he weren't affili– ated with a commercial venture."

"Speaking of commercial ventures, we heard there's a fish– processing plant of some sort up the coast. Could they have had any– thing to do with this?"

"In what way?"

"I don't know. Pollution, maybe. Like those two-headed frogs they sometimes find in contaminated waters."

"Interesting premise, but unlikely. You might see some deformed fish or fish kills, but this monster is no accident. And we would have seen deformities in other species, which doesn't seem to have been the case. Tell you what, though. We'll motor out and anchor for the night near the fish plant and make a few sets with the net in the morning. How long can you stay on board?"

"As long as you can stand us," Paul said. "We don't want to im– pose."

"No imposition at all." He put the salmon back into the cooler. "You may decide to cut your stay short after you see your cabin."

The cabin was slightly bigger than the two up-and-down bunks it contained. After Throckmorton left them to get settled, Paul tried to ease his six-foot-eight length into the lower bunk, but his legs hung over the side.

"I've been thinking about what Dr. Throckmorton told us," Gamay said, trying the mattress on top. "Suppose you were Dr. Barker and you were working for Oceanus on this biofish thing. Would you want anyone testing genetic material that could be traced to your doorstep?"

"Nope. Judging from our own experience, Oceanus is ruthless when it comes to snoops."

"Any suggestions?"

"Sure. We could suggest that Throckmorton find another location to anchor for the night. Fake a toothache, or make some other ex– cuse.

"You don't really want to do that, do you?"

"As you recall, I whined the whole trip up here because I couldn't go play with Kurt and Joe."

"You don't have to remind me. You sounded as if you hadn't been picked for the Little League team."

"Dr. Throckmorton is a fine fellow, but I wasn't prepared to baby– sit him away from the action."

"And now you think the action may have moved to our doorstep."

Paul nodded and said, "Got a Loony?" Gamay dug out a Cana– dian dollar coin with the picture of a loon on one side.

Paul tossed it in the air and caught it on the back of his cast. Heads. I lose. You get to choose which watch you want."

"Okay, you can take the first two-hour shift, starting as soon as the fest of the crew turns in."

"Fine with me." He extracted himself from the bunk. "I wouldn't get much sleep in this torture rack." He lifted his injured arm in the air. "Maybe I can use this cast as a weapon."

"No need," Gamay said with a smile. She dug into her duffel bap– and pulled out a holster that held a.22 caliber target pistol. "I brought this along in case I wanted to brush up on my target shooting."

Paul smiled. As a girl, his wife had been taught by her father to shoot skeet, and she was an expert marksman. He took the pistol and found that he could aim it if he propped up the cast with his other hand.

Gamay looked at his shaky aim. "Maybe we should both stand watch."

The ship dropped anchor about a mile from shore. The silhouettes of rooflines and a communication tower marked the Oceanus facil– ity, which was located on a rocky hill overlooking the water. The Trouts had dinner in the small galley with Throckmorton, his stu– dents and some crew. Time went by quickly, hastened by talk about Throckmorton's work and the Trouts5 NUMA experiences. Around eleven, they called it a night.

Paul and Gamay went to their cabin and waited until the ship was quiet. Then they crept up onto the deck and took a position on the side facing land. The night was cool. They stayed warm with the heavy sweaters under their windbreakers and blankets borrowed from their bunks. The water was flat calm, except for a lazy swell. Paul sat with his back to the cabin housing, and Gamay lay on the deck beside him.

The first two hours went quickly. Then Gamay took over and Paul stretched out on the deck. It seemed he was asleep only a few minutes before Gamay was shaking him by the shoulder. He came awake quickly and said, "What's up?"

"I need your eyes. I've been watching that dark smudge on the water. I thought it might be a patch of floating seaweed, but it's come closer."

Paul rubbed his eyes and followed the pointing finger. At first, he saw nothing but the blue-blackness of the sea. After a moment, he saw a darker mass, and it seemed to be moving in their direction. There was something else, the soft murmur of voices. "That's the first time I ever heard a patch of kelp talking. How about firing a shot across their bow."

They crawled forward, and Gamay assumed a prone firing position with her elbows resting on the deck, the pistol clasped in two hands. Paul fiddled with a flashlight, but finally got it into position. When Gamay gave him the go-ahead, he flicked the light on. The powerful beam fell upon the swarthy faces of four men. They were dressed in black and were sitting in two kayaks, their wooden paddles frozen in mid-stroke. Their almond eyes blinked with surprise in the light.

Crack!

The first shot shattered the paddle held by the lead man in one boat. There was a second shot, and a paddle in the second boat flew into pieces. The men in the rear of the kayaks back-paddled furiously, and the others dug their hands into the water to help. They got the boats turned around and headed back toward land, but Gamay wasn't about to let them off so easily. The boats were almost out of range of the light when she shot out the other two paddles.

"Good shootin', Annie Oakley," Paul said.

"Good spottin', Dead-Eye Dick. That should keep them busy for a while."

The gunfire wasn't loud by itself, but in the stillness of the night it must have sounded like cannon barrages, because Dr. Throck– morton and some of the crew came on deck.

"Oh, hullo," he said, when he saw the Trouts. "We heard a noise. My goodness-" he said, spying the pistol in Camay's hand.

"Just thought I'd do some target practice."

They could hear voices out on the water. One of the crew went to the ship's rail and cocked his ear. "Sounds as if someone needs help. We'd better get a boat over the side."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Paul said, in his usual soft– spoken manner but with an unmistakable steeliness in his voice. "The folks out there are doing fine on their own."

Throckmorton hesitated, then said to the crewman: "It's all right. I want to talk to the Trouts for a moment."

After the others had shuffled back to their cabins, Throckmorton said, "Now if you wouldn't mind telling me, my friends, exactly what is going on?"

Gamay said to her husband, "I'll go get some coffee. It could be a long night." Minutes later, she returned with three steaming mugs. "I found a bottle of whiskey and poured in a few shots," she said. "I thought we might need it."

Taking turns, they laid out their suspicions of the Oceanus plot, backing them up with evidence gleaned from several sources.

"These are grave charges," Throckmorton said. "Do you have solid proof of this outrageous plan?"

"I'd say the proof is that thing in your lab cooler," Gamay said. "Do you have any more questions?"

"Yes," Throckmorton said after a moment. "Do you have any more whiskey?"

Gamay had thoughtfully stuck the pint in her pocket. After they refreshed his coffee and he had taken a sip, Throckmorton said, "Frederick's affiliations have always bothered me, but I had assumed, optimistically I suppose, that scientific reason would overrule his commercial interests in time."

"Let me ask you a question about the premise we're operating under," Gamay said. "Would it be possible to destroy the native fish populations and substitute these Frankenfish?"

"Entirely possible, and if anyone could do it, it would be Dr. Barker. This explains so much. It's still hard to believe Dr. Barker is with this bunch. But he has acted strangely." He blinked like some– one coming out of a dream. "Those gunshots I heard. Someone tried to board our ship!"

"It would seem so," Gamay said.

"Perhaps it would be better if we moved on and informed the au– thorities!"

"We don't know where that shore facility fits into the picture," Gamay said, with a combination of feminine firmness and reassur– ance. "Kurt thinks it may be important and wants us to keep an eye on it until his mission is completed."

"Isn't that dangerous to the people on board this ship?"

"Not necessarily," Paul said. "Just as long as we keep watch. I'd suggest that you have the captain get the ship ready for a quick de– parture. But I doubt our friends will come back, now that we've spoiled the element of surprise."

"All right," Throckmorton said. He set his jaw in determination. "But is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes," Paul said. He took the whiskey from Gamay and poured Throckmorton another shot to calm the professor's nerves. "You can wait."

33

THE SOS CREW stumbled blindly through deep woods, with the guards showing no mercy. Therri tried to get a better look at their tormentors, but a guard jammed a gun into her back with such force that it broke the skin. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks. She bit her lip, stifling the urge to cry out.

The forest was dark, except for lights glowing here and there through the trees. Then the trees thinned, and they were standing in front of a building whose large door was illuminated by an outside floodlight. They were shoved inside the building, the guards cut the wire binding their wrists, and the sliding door was slammed shut and locked behind them.

The air inside smelled of gasoline and there were oil stains on the floor, evidence that the structure had been built as an oversized garage. No vehicles were parked inside, but the garage was far from empty. More than three dozen people-men, women and a few chil– dren-huddled like frightened puppies against the far wall. Their misery was etched into their tired faces, and there was no mistaking the terror in their eyes at the sudden appearance of strangers.

The two groups stared warily at each other. After a moment, a man who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor got to his feet and came over. His face was as wrinkled as old leather and his long gray hair was tied in a ponytail. He had dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were filthy, yet he projected an aura of unmistakable dignity. When he spoke, Therri realized why the man looked so familiar.

"I'm Jesse Nighthawk," he said, extending his hand in greeting.

"NighthawJ" she said. "You must be Ben's father."

His mouth dropped open. "You know my son?"

"Yes, I work with him in the SOS office in Washington."

The old man glanced past Them's shoulder as if he were looking for someone. "Ben was here. I saw him run out of the woods. He was with another man, who was killed."

"Yes, I know. Ben is fine. I just saw him in Washington. He told us that you and the villagers were in trouble."

Ryan stepped forward and said, "We came to get you and the oth– ers out."

Jesse Nighthawk gazed at Ryan as if he were Dudley Do-Right, the cartoon Mountie who always arrived to save the day. Shaking his head, he said, "You seem to mean well, but I'm sorry you came. You have put yourself in great danger by coming here."

"We were captured as soon as we landed," Therri said. "It was as if they knew we were coming."

"They have watchers everywhere," Nighthawk said. "The evil one told me this."

"The 'evil one'?"

"You'll meet him, I'm afraid. He's like a monster in a heat dream. He killed Ben's cousin with a spear." Jesse's eyes grew moist at the recollection. "We've been working day and night clearing the forest. Even the women and children…" His voice trailed off in weariness. "Who are these people?" Ryan said.

"They call themselves Kiolya. I think they're Eskimos. I don't know for sure. They started building in the woods across the lake from our village. We didn't much like it, but we're squatters on the land, so we don't have any say in things. Then one day they came across the lake with guns and brought us here. We've been cutting trees and dragging them off ever since. You have any idea what this is all about?"

Before Ryan could answer, there was the sound of the door being unlatched. Six men came into the garage, machine rifles draped in the crooks of their arms. Their dark faces were alike, wide with high cheekbones, and hard, almond-shaped eyes. The cruelty sculpted into their impassive expressions paled next to that of the seventh man to enter. He was built like a bull, with a short thick neck, his head sitting almost directly on powerful shoulders. His yellowish-red skin was pockmarked and his mouth was set in a leer. Vertical tattoo marks flanked his nose, which was bruised and misshapen. He was unarmed, except for the knife hanging in a scabbard at his belt.

Therri stared in disbelief at the man who had pursued Austin on the dogsled. There was no mistaking the ruined face and the body that looked as if it had been pumped up on steroids. She knew ex– actly who Jesse meant when he talked about the 'evil one.' The man swept his eyes over the new prisoners, sending chills along Them's spine as his coal-black eyes lingered on her body. Jesse Nighthawk instinctively stepped back with the other villagers.

A brutish grin crossed the man's face as he saw the fear he in– spired. He uttered a guttural command. The guards shoved Thern, Ryan and Mercer out of the building and marched them through the woods. Therri was completely disoriented. She had no idea where the lake was. If by some miracle she had the chance to escape, she wouldn't know which way to run.

Her confusion was further compounded seconds later. They were moving along a paved path toward a thick stand of fir trees that barred their way like a dark and impenetrable wall. The fat trunks and thickly grown branches were a shadowy interplay of blacks and grays. When they were yards away from the nearest trees, a section of forest disappeared. In its place was a rectangle of blinding white light. Therri shielded her eyes. When they adjusted after a moment, she saw people moving about as if she were looking through a door– way into another dimension.

They were herded through the door into an enormous, brightly lit space hundreds of feet across, and vaulted by a high, rounded ceil– ing. She looked behind her as the rectangle of forest vanished, and she realized that they had stepped into a building masked by a clever camouflage. While the structure itself was an architectural wonder, what caught their breath was the huge silvery-white airship that took up a good portion of the space inside the dome.

They gazed up in astonishment at the torpedo-shaped leviathan that was longer than two football fields. Its tail tapered down to a point that was surrounded by four triangular stabilizing fins, giving it a streamlined appearance despite its enormous size. Four massive engines in protective nacelles hung from struts below the belly of the aircraft. The airship rested on a complicated system of fixed and mov– able gantries. Dozens of men in coveralls swarmed around and over the airship. The air echoed with the sound of machinery and tools. The guards nudged the prisoners forward under the rounded nose of the airship, which loomed overhead as if it could crush them at any second. Therri had a fleeting image of what a bug must feel like just before a shoe comes down.

A long, narrow control cabin, ringed by big windows, was set into the aircraft's belly a short distance back from the nose, and they were ordered inside. The roomy interior reminded Therri of a ship, com– plete with its spoked wheel and binnacle. A man stood inside giving orders to several others. Unlike the guards, who all looked as if they had sprung from the same mold, he was tall and his skin looked as if it had been bleached. His head was shaved bald. He turned at the arrival of the prisoners and looked at them through dark sunglasses then handed off the electronic clipboard he was holding.

"Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. SOS to the rescue." He smiled, but his voice had all the warmth of a wind blowing off a gla– cier.

Ryan responded as if he hadn't heard the taunt. "My name is Mar– cus Ryan, the director of Sentinels of the Sea. This is Them Weld, our legal counsel, and Chuck Mercer, SOS operations director."

"There's no need to go through the routine of name, rank and se– rial number. I know perfectly well who you are," the man said. "Let's not waste time. In the white-man's world, I go by the name of Fred– erick Barker. I'm called Toonook by my own people."

"You and these others are Eskimos?" Ryan said.

"Ignorant people call us by that name, but we are Kiolya."

"You don't fit the stereotype for an Eskimo."

"I've inherited the genes of a New England whaling captain. What started as a humiliating liability has enabled me to pass myself off in the outside world without question, to the benefit of the Kiolya."

"What is this thing?" Ryan said, glancing above his head.

"Beautiful, isn't it? The Nietzsche was secretly built by the Ger– mans to go to the North Pole. They planned to use it for commercial flight. It was all fitted out to take on passengers who would pay any– thing to fly aboard a real polar explorer. When it crashed, my peo– ple thought it was a gift from heaven. In a way, they were right. I've spent millions in restoration. We made improvements in the engines and their carrying capacity. The gas bags were replaced with new ones that can hold millions of cubic feet of hydrogen."

'I thought hydrogen went out with the Hindenburg,') Mercer said.

'German airships safely traveled thousands of miles using hydro– gen. I chose it because of the weight of my cargo. Hydrogen has twice the lifting power of helium. By the means of this simplest of atoms, the People of the Aurora Borealis will achieve their rightful destiny."

"You're talking in riddles," Ryan said.

"Not at all. Legend has it that the Kiolya were born in the aurora, which the Inuit tribes fear as a source of bad luck. Unfortunately, you and your friends will soon learn that this reputation is well-earned."

"You intend to kill us, don't you?"

"The Kiolya don't keep prisoners beyond their usefulness."

"What about the villagers?"

"As I said, we don't keep prisoners."

"Since we're doomed, why not indulge our curiosity and tell us where this aviation antique fits in."

A cold smile crossed the pale lips. "This is where the hero plays on the villain's vanity, hoping for the cavalry to arrive. Don't waste your time. You and your friends will live only as long as I need you."

"Aren't you interested in learning what we know about your plans?"

In answer, Barker said something in a strange language, and the leader of the guards stepped forward and handed him one of the C– 4 explosive packets that Mercer had carefully prepared. "Did you in– tend to do some mining?"

Ryan shot back. "Hell no! We planned to sink your operation like you did our ship."

"Blunt and to the point as usual, Mr. Ryan. But I don't think you'll get the chance to ignite your little July Fourth display," he said, his words dripping with contempt. He tossed the explosives to his hench– man. "And exactly what do you know about our 'operation'?"

"We know all about your experiments with biologically modified fish."

"That's only part of my grand plan," Barker said. "Let me explain what the future holds. Tonight, this airship will rise into the sky and head east. Its holding tanks will be filled with genetically modified fish in several species. It will spread my creations in the sea like a farmer planting seed. Within a few weeks and months, the native species will be wiped out. If this pilot project succeeds, as I expect it will, similar seedings will take place in all the world's oceans. In time, most of the fish on the world market will be those produced through our patented gene banks. We will have near-total monopoly."

Ryan laughed. "Do you really think this crazy scheme will work?"

"There's nothing crazy about it. Every computer model points to a resounding success. The natural fish stocks are doomed from over– fishing and industrial pollution, anyway. I'm simply hastening the day when the oceans are turned into vast fish farms. Best of all, throwing fish into the sea isn't even against the law."

"Killing people is against the law," Ryan said, anger in his eyes. "You murdered my friend and colleague Josh Green."

Therri was unable to contain herself any longer. "Josh wasn't the only one. You killed the television reporter aboard the Sentinel. Your thugs shot one of your own men in Copenhagen. You murdered Ben Nighthawk's cousin and tried to kill Senator Graham. You're keep– ing people as slaves."

"The company lawyer has a tongue!" Barker's jaw hardened and the civilized tone he had been using turned into a snarl. "It's a pity you weren't around to argue the case for the Kiolya when they starved to death because the white men decimated the walrus. Or when the tribe was forced to leave its traditional hunting grounds, spreading throughout Canada, moving into the cities far from their homeland."

"None of that gives you the right to kill people or to mess up the

oceans for your own good," she said, with unrestrained fury. "You can terrorize a bunch of poor Indians and push us around, but you're going to have to contend with NUMA."

"I'm not going to lose any sleep over Admiral Sandecker's collec– tion of oddballs and geeks."

"Would you lose sleep over Kurt Austin?" Ryan said.

"I know all about Austin. He's a dangerous man-but NUMA re– gards SOS as an outlaw organization. No, you and your friends here are all alone. More alone than you have ever been in your life." Barker's tattooed henchman said something in the Kiolya language. "Umealiq reminds me that you wanted to see my pets."

With the guards taking up the rear, Barker led the way to a side door that opened to the outside. Moments later, they were back at the building where SOS had planted the explosive charges. Only this time, the interior was brightly lit up.

Barker paused in front of one of the tanks. The fish inside was nearly ten feet long. Barker cocked his head like an artist studying his canvas.

"I did most of my early work with salmon," Barker said. "It was comparatively easy to create giants like this. Although I actually came up with a fifty-pound sardine that lived a few months."

He moved on to the next tank. Therri sucked in her breath at the sight of the creature inside. It was a salmon, half the size of the fish in the first tank, but it had two identical heads on the same body. 'This one didn't turn out the way I planned. You must admit it's in– teresting, though."

The fish in the next tank was even more deformed, its body cov– ered with round lumps that gave it a repulsive, pebbled appearance. In another tank was a fish with bulbous, protruding eyes. The same deformities were repeated with other species, haddock and cod and herring.

"These are hideous," Ryan said.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." Barker stopped before a tank that held a silvery-white fish about five feet long. "This is an early prototype I developed before I found that aggression and size were getting out of control in my experiments. I let some into the wild to see what happened. Unfortunately, they started to devour each other after they wiped out the local species."

"These aren't experiments, they're monsters," Ryan said. "Why do you let them live?"

"Feeling sorry for a fish? That's stretching it, even for SOS. Let me tell you about this fellow. He's very handy. We threw the body of the Indian into the tank along with your friend, and he stripped them down to the bone in no time. We let the other Indians watch, and they haven't given us an ounce of trouble since."

Ryan lost his cool and launched himself at Barker. He had his hands around the man's throat, when Barker's henchman grabbed the rifle from one of the guards and slammed the butt into Ryan's head. Therri was showered with blood as Ryan slumped to the floor.

Therri felt the coldness in the pit of her stomach as she recog– nized the source of the fear she had seen in Jesse Nighthawk's eyes. She heard Barker say, "If Mr. Ryan and his friends are so concerned about their finny friends, maybe we can arrange dinner together later."

Then the guards closed in.